Lunch

It Must Be Time For Lunch Now, 1979, by Francesca Woodman

the taste of it  
sticks under the roof in my mouth 

rough as unleavened bread
salty as the sea salmon

your big soulful eyes pepper the heat, 
falling into exhilaration of the hunting season    

and no amount of spooning nor post-loving kisses
can sweeten the fear and madness beating in your heart

loving me is a beast sweetheart 

give me the fork,
it's time for my lunch 



Written for The Mag - 137  ~ Happy Sunday ~ goodness, I don't where my muse took me ~
This work is from the same US photographer who committed suicide at the age of 22.

Shared with Poets United ~

Paper doll

                                                                    
                                                                          image by Francesca Woodman


my hands mock  
images brimming in my head 
raw and bare earth 


my breasts betray 
passion surging in my limbs
consuming, black blur  


my eyes flicker  
like paper doll, stripped empty
unworthy of you


i hurl the shell of me,
fragile as glass, but cold as stone  
to sky window 


please, 
remember my face 

Posted for The Mag 130 :   Francesca Woodman was a young American photographer whose work was produced between 1972 and 1981. Despite the fact that she was working for only a short period, Woodman has, over the past 30 years, gained a reputation as one of the most important names in photography.  She committed suicide at age 22. 

At the dinner table

                                                   A Dinner Table at Night, 1884, John Singer Sargent

she slowly runs her finger on the glass rim,
red wine smoulders on tongue, 
washing away the lamb dish, served on silver platter

should she take coffee? 

she peers at her companion, black and white tie
a study of political correctness and wealth
glimmering the room in rose madder and gold     

her black satin dress is now heavy on thighs
maybe a cold dessert pie will cool her off,
as his voice rose in disparaging, sharp clicks 

she nods slowly, pale and poised as an arrow,
while looking at the silvery lamp
it needs more polish, maybe 2 more vigorous rubbing,
she mentally muses,  while checking the dip of her decolletage       

clock ticks so loudly  
as the conversation meanders on Madame X scandal       



Written for The Mag - Thanks for the visit ~

Yesterday's dreams

                                                          artwork by Jack Vettriano


you gifted me with palette of colors
every brushstroke,  rushing wave  
every curved line,  weeping music 
words quivered from my lips,  
seeping deeply your wine-cupped hands,
eager to stain the white sky


now as i gaze outside the window,
every traffic light changing, falling rain  
every hour passing, wilting red poppy 
words hang precariously on slopes and edges 
of me, sharply descending into white oblivion    
   
     
reluctantly, i wait 



  
Posted for:   The Mag : Yesterday's Dreams by Jack Vettriano
and Poets United ~

Stumbling for Forget-Me-Nots

 Still Life, 1670, detail by Jean François de Le Motte

you wrote a letter

and pinned it on the board

forgotten

you scribbled sweet nothings 

across pamphelt and left it 

dangling      

you hid the truth under the 

flowing strokes, obscure lines 

in the journal of us

your words hammered  

until they were rubber bands, 

wounding tight around my chest

so don't look for me 

in the wooden panels of the room,

pining for the ship to anchor us    

i am outside, 

stumbling for Forget-Me-Nots,

and dancing with the wind  

                                           Copy Right © 2012 Hannah Gosselin ~ Stumbling for Forget-Me-Nots

                                                                    
Posted for:   The Mag 121
and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:   Photography by Hannah Gosselin